Nay, even the houses are not new—at least, the staircases of them. We

have already several times mentioned in our columns that on the north

side of the river, in the house of the merchant Loukyànov, the bottom

steps of the wooden stairs are rotten, fallen in, and a constant danger

to his servant, the soldier’s widow Afimia Skapidàrova, who is often

obliged to carry water or firewood up this staircase. At last our

warnings have proved true; yesterday evening, at half-past eight

o’clock, Afimia Skapidàrova fell through the staircase with a soup

tureen and broke her leg. We do not know whether Loukyànov will mend his

staircase now; Russians are always wise when it is too late; but the

victim of this Russian has perhaps already been carried to the hospital.

In the same way, we still persist in maintaining that the dvorniks, who

clean the wooden pavements of the Wyborg district of this town, have no

right to splash the legs of the passers-by, but should shovel the mud

into heaps, as is done in Europe, where boots are cleaned,” &c.

“But how’s this?” said I, looking in stupefaction at my neighbour; “I

never heard of such a thing!”

“How so?”

“Why, my dear sir, instead of pitying Ivan Matvyèich, they pity the

crocodile!”

“And why not? A mere animal—a _mammal_—and we have pity even for it!

Which way are we behind Europe after that, eh? They’re very tender to

crocodiles in Europe too, you know. Ha, ha, ha!”

And my neighbour buried himself in his papers and spoke not another

word.

I put the _Vòlos_ and _Listòk_ into my pocket and took, in addition to

them, all the back numbers I could find, for the evening recreation of

Ivan Matvyèich, and, although it was still early, slipped away out of

the Department in order to visit the Passage, to look on, if only from

the distance, at what was taking place there, and to overhear various

expressions of opinions and views. I was convinced that there would be a

tremendous crowd, and drew up the collar of my cloak to hide my face,

for somehow I felt a little bit ashamed—so unaccustomed are we to

publicity. But I feel that I have no right to dilate upon my personal,

prosaic feelings in presence of so extraordinary and original an event.

THE STEAM-CHICKEN.

[Illustration]

(_A Story fit to be printed only in the Christmas holidays._)[42]

BY GLYEB USPÈNSKY.

Although I cannot protest against the above observation, which very

truly characterises this little sketch, I am bound to remark that the

title—“A Story”—given to this production by the editor in question, is

entirely out of character with both the subject under discussion and the

manner in which that subject is treated. The sketch contains no coherent

story at all, nor is it founded upon any story in real life. A group of

people were simply discussing “_the soul_,” and one of the disputants, a

poultry-farmer on a journey, delivered a kind of lecture upon the

subject, bringing forward some very interesting facts concerning

gallinaceous psychology. That is all.

This is how it happened:—

I got tired of waiting for my train in the stuffy little general

waiting-hole of the most microscopic station on the whole N—— Railway,

so I went out to sit and smoke on the platform. It was getting on for

eleven o’clock on a warm, dark autumn night. The only light on the

platform came from three small paraffin lamps, placed at long distances

from one another, and giving so little light that I was quite unable to

see clearly the group of dark human silhouettes collected on the

platform close to me, and, like myself, waiting for the train. I could

see several black shadows, but it was impossible to form an idea what

sort of people they were. The conversation that they were carrying on

together was, however, distinctly audible in the motionless silence of

the dusky, sultry night.

Unfortunately, this conversation was of a most gloomy character. It

referred to an unusual misfortune which had happened early that morning

at a neighbouring station, and had been a subject of general

conversation along the whole line. A certain publichouse keeper, well

known to every one connected with the railway, had thrown himself in

front of the train. He had been a confirmed drunkard for some years, and

had arrived at absolute beggary.

“You see, mates, towards the last he went off his head altogether,” said

one of the black silhouettes, whom, from the glittering of his badge

when he moved, one could guess to be the railway watchman. “He tried to

do it five times before ... but he always got frightened. He’d run up to

the train and then begin to yell.... The train would come thundering

along, and he’d just scream with terror, and yet he’d run on, throwing

up his hands. ‘Ah!—ah!—ah!—ah!’ and yet he’d run at it.... He was

mortally scared, and yet he couldn’t let it alone!... God always saved

him; the good Christian people didn’t want to let him die; ... they’d

catch him and take him home by force; ... they put him in the

hospital.... Well, it seems this time he was too sharp for them.”...

“Did he call out? Did any one hear?”

“They said afterwards that somebody yelled like a wild thing. They say

they heard something crying and screaming.... But, you see, it was

night-time; it was quite dark that’s plain!”...

“The devil’s will, you mean. In such business as that, it’s the devil

that’s lord and master, not God!” said a voice from the group of

silhouettes.

“True! true!” muttered several voices; and a short silence followed.

The conversation was an unpleasant one; the subject under discussion was

gloomy and fearful, and the people seemed ill at ease in talking of it.

But maybe for that very reason they were unable to free themselves from

the haunting idea, and enter into the ordinary small talk of chance-met

passengers. Unpleasant as it was to think and talk of a suicide, the

conversation about it started afresh.

“They do say it was all his wife’s doing that he got like that; he took

to drinking because of her.”

“Did the silly fellow care more for his wife than his soul?”

“Ah! but then, you know, ... she ran away from him—and he got lonely

without her—and so——”

“Ran away! Why, the devil take her, let her run away as far as she

likes; there are plenty of women to be got!”

“Plenty of women, but only one soul!”

“He’ll have to answer for his soul to God in the next world!”...

“Ah! the soul! the soul!”... said the watchman, with a sigh; and the

conversation would probably have broken off if the young

assistant-stationmaster had not suddenly appeared beside the group. No

one had heard him come up on account of his indiarubber galoshes.

He was a very cheerful young man; he had just got his situation, just

got married, just put on his new uniform, and naturally felt that now he

was “decently set up.” He stopped, as he was sauntering past, to smoke a

cigarette with the group, and, for want of anything to do, cheerfully

threw in a word.

“What’s the talk about? What soul?”

He had accidentally caught, in passing, the word “soul”; his thoughts

were altogether at the other end of the earth from any stray

conversations; he was going merrily home to his young wife and his

boiling samovar, and was altogether thoroughly contented with himself.

“Why, we were just talking about the misfortune that happened to-day ...

about the publican.”...

“Well, what about him?”

He struck a match on his coat-sleeve, hardly listening to what was said.

“We were just talking, sir; that’s all.... You see, the poor fellow’s

lost his immortal soul.”

“What soul?”

The cigarette lighted suddenly, and scattered little sparks all round.

“What soul? What nonsense are you talking?”

“Why! your honour! his soul!”

“The man was simply a drunkard! It’s all nonsense!”

“But what about the next world?”

“What’s the use of talking rubbish? Don’t get drunk, and you won’t be

run over.... The deuce knows what they’ll say next—a soul!”

His young wife and his boiling new samovar occupied his thoughts so

completely that they made his whole conversation merry, and gave it a

tone of “all fiddle-sticks!” Having uttered his few remarks in a

cheerful manner, he walked away, also in a cheerful manner, along the

platform, and flung back at the group of silhouettes one last word—

“Twaddle!”

He then disappeared in the darkness, humming “Strièlochka.”

“No, it isn’t twaddle!” rather decidedly remarked one of the

silhouettes; and his dark figure moved forwards, hiding all the other

silhouettes. “It’s anything but twaddle—a soul is!”

The appearance of the cheerful stationmaster had somehow driven away the

gloomy thoughts of the group, and, not finding at the moment any

pleasant theme for conversation, they did not support the unknown orator

by any positive announcement at all. But their silence in no way put him

out of countenance, and he continued, in an impressive tone of voice—

“Twaddle! It’s easy for him to talk!... The man simply doesn’t believe

in God—he’s a Nihilist, that’s what he is!... If he believed in God he

wouldn’t dare to talk like that.... I used to be no better than a dead

log myself until I got conviction.... What can any of us understand? We

know how to say our prayers; we know how to put candles before the

altar; but what do we know about the wisdom of the Lord?... And yet, if

the Lord God should call me now to the lot, first of a fish and then of

a hen, and should give me a talent and allow me to enter into it, I tell

you, mates, I understand all about it now!... Yes! There is a soul,

mates! there is indeed!... That’s what I say—it’s true; it’s not

twaddle!”

The audience had at first some difficulty in understanding what this

poultry-farmer was talking about. The most incompatible images and ideas

had got so mixed up together in his speech—God, the soul, a fish’s lot,

a hen’s lot—all this was too hard for the silhouettes to digest at once.

Somebody tried how it would do to make one of the stock remarks of the

Russian citizen in difficulties: “Of course it is!”—one of those phrases

which will serve for an answer at a pinch, but have no meaning in

particular (though they are constantly used in commerce); but he said it

in a timid whisper, and relapsed into silence.

The silence was, however, of short duration. A pleasanter topic had been

started, and the conversation grew lively.

“I don’t quite understand—allow me to ask, do hens have souls?” slowly

and deliberately inquired one of the silhouettes, with the evident

intention of starting a long discussion. “Kindly explain to me on what

you base that opinion. A soul is bound to be Christian; and there is

surely nothing said in the Holy Scriptures about hens’ and fishes’

souls.”...

“I grant you there is really nothing about it in the Scriptures; but I,

you see me, Selivèrstov, poultry-farmer—_I_ tell you—yes! You can

believe me or not, as you like, but I assure you that when I get to

really understand the affairs of fishes, and especially of poultry, then

I began to believe in the Almighty Creator. Up till then I was just a

dead log! You can think what you like. Yes!...”

There was great animation in the tone of the poultry-farmer’s voice, but

it was evident that the immensity of the theme which so deeply

interested him rendered his position embarrassing and perplexed him in

speaking.

“Yes,” he continued, repeating the words he had already said, “it was

through the poultry that I grew to recognise the wisdom of God. You must

make what you can of that.”

There was a short silence.

“And do poultry have souls?” inquired one of the silhouettes, in a tone

of evident irony. The poultry-farmer hesitated a moment, then, as it

were, gave himself a little shake, plucked up his courage, and growled,

in a deep bass—

“They do!”

“What! Hens have souls?”

“Yes, sir.”

This answer was evidently given in blind recklessness, and the

poultry-farmer, seeing that he could no longer draw back, continued

loudly and rapidly—

“I tell you, positively, I would swear it before the Lord Himself—fowls

do have souls, may I die to-night if they don’t! There!”

Silence.

“They do!” cried the poultry-farmer again.

Once more there was silence.

“Yes! They do, indeed they do!”

“There! there! friend.... It strikes me, my man, that you ... you

know....”

“Not, ‘you know,’ at all! What’s the use of ‘you know’? It’s the truth

I’m telling you; not ‘you know.’ ... Now I’ll just catechise you, and

you see if you can answer me.”

“Why shouldn’t I be able to answer you? If you talk like a human being,

I’ll answer you like a human being.”

“You didn’t suppose I was going to bark at you?”

“Well, if you don’t bark, I won’t cry: ‘cock-a-doodle-doo!’... Fire

away!”

“Very well, then; if you can answer me, I’ll put questions to you....

First of all: we were just talking about the destroying of souls....

Now, tell me, why did the publican throw himself under the train?”

“’Twas the devil’s doing, and nothing else,” again interposed the

decided voice from the group of silhouettes, before the person addressed

had time to answer.

“Of course it’s the devil’s doing, I know that,” said the

poultry-farmer; “but what I want to know is, on what pretence this same

devil got him to go under the wheels; that’s what I want to know!”

“Why, you heard what was said—that he got cut up about his wife,”

answered the other speaker. “Got upset about a woman, took to drinking,

and of course any sort of thing can come of the drink....”

“So that, if you look into the matter, it appears like as if the first

cause was trouble?”

“I s’pose so....”

“Very well, then; now you explain. What part of him did the wheel go

over?”

“I don’t know; you’d better ask him.... I say! Mikhàilych! where did the

wheel go over the publican?”

“It cut him right across the body,” answered the watchman—“like this.”

“And of course it went over his back and all?” demanded the

poultry-farmer, like a regular expert.

“Of course it smashed every bit of him that came under it....”

“That’s all right! Now, allow me to ask you, When you say that it

happened ‘from trouble,’ tell me whereabouts in him was the trouble—was

it in his back, or his body, or anywhere in his bones?”

This question appeared to the audience so amazingly incongruous, that,

after a short silence, several persons went off into fits of laughing;

and the interlocutor of the poultry-farmer, evidently not wishing to

continue such an idle conversation, remarked—

“Eh! friend! if one wants to talk with you, one must hang a cloth tongue

in one’s mouth; one’s own would soon get wagged off.... Your head’s so

empty, that one can hear the wind whistle through it, even on a close

night like this!... The trouble was in his inside.”

“Do you mean the trouble about his wife was in his inside?”

“There! shut up with your foolery!” exclaimed the other, irritably; “I

never heard a fellow rattle off such stuff!...”

“All that is because you haven’t got any gift of reflection.”

“Reflection be hanged!”

“Supposing a soldier’s foot is cut off, that means it was his foot that

was bad, not his back or his inside. Supposing my hand is cut off, it

must have been my hand that was bad, and not my ear or my nose.... Very

well, then; if a man goes and breaks his back under a railway train from

grief, I should like to know where was his grief—in his back, or in his

inside?”

Silence.

“Now, you see, that’s just the whole point.... The trouble was in his

conscience, in his soul—not in his bones or his ribs.... That’s why you

should say: ‘He’s lost his soul,’ instead of saying ‘Twaddle,’ as that

grand gentleman said.... It was his soul that was ill; and it was his

soul that went to pieces under the train....”

“It’s the devil’s work, and nothing else,” obstinately growled the

unseen bass in the group of silhouettes.

“The devil’s work? Of course it’s the devil’s work! Only, the devil

doesn’t pull you under the train by your leg, but by your conscience, by

your soul. That’s just the whole thing. No, no, mates! There is a soul,

there is indeed!...”

“And what about the hen’s soul?” began again the man who had just broken

off his conversation with the poultry-farmer.

“Hens have souls too.... It was a hen’s soul that brought me to my

senses.... You see my hamper of chickens over there?”

The hamper was probably standing somewhere on the platform, though it

could not be seen in the darkness.

“Well, what about it?”

“Very well, then; I thought I’d take our women in once more with a

steam-chicken; but they were too sharp for me. I thought I’d trick them,

you see, and pay them for their eggs with a steam-chicken, but I had

tried it once too often—they would not take it.”

[Illustration:

“WELL, I LOOKED, AND I THOUGHT TO MYSELF, ‘HOW DID ALL THAT FIRE GET

INTO THAT LITTLE GLASS GLOBE.’”

]

“Why?”

“Because the steam-chicken has no soul! He has no soul at all, and so he

doesn’t breed. That’s just the whole thing. I work on a steam-chicken

farm. Well, you see, at one time we used to exchange steam-chickens for

eggs. We’d give a woman a cock and hen—for that matter, it was quite

worth our while to give a cock and two hens for a dozen or a dozen and a

half eggs.... We could always raise ten or fifteen out of two or three

dozen; so we made our profit. At first the women took them and it was

all right—and of course it was better for us than paying in money. But

after a bit we couldn’t get anybody to take them; all the women came and

made a row about it: ‘Your machine-hens won’t lay!’ And there you are!

It’s no use, whatever you do; they _won’t_ lay! And it’s just the same

with fish. All those machine-raised fish—you know, you can rear them

artificially now—but they won’t breed.... Now, just you think of

that—the wisdom of it! The temperature’s there—’cause, you know, it’s

done with hot water and steam—but there’s no soul!”

“But it can run about, your machine-chicken—can’t it? and eat?”

“It runs about and it eats, but it hasn’t any reason.... It doesn’t know

how to think about life....”

“Strikes me, my man, you’re gone off the hooks!...”

“Off the hooks or not, there’s not much sense in your talk either....

Runs about! What’s running to do with it? There’s your steam-engine

runs, better than any horse; but just you go and tell it: ‘Turn to the

left,’ ‘Stop at the publichouse,’—d’ye think it’ll turn?... Runs! ’Tis

all the same thing as the ’lectric light. I’ve got a neighbour that’s

lamplighter in a theatre, and he said to me, ‘Just look, this is the new

fire they’ve invented!’ Well, I looked, and I thought to myself: ‘How

did all that fire get in that little glass globe (’twas made just like a

flower) and not break it?’ So I said to him, ‘Why doesn’t the glass

crack with all that fire?’ and my neighbour just burst out laughing.

‘It’s a very dreadful sort of fire, that is,’ said he; ‘just you spit at

it and see how it will hiss.’ Well, I spat at that tulip-flower, and it

never hissed at all. ‘How’s that?’ says I. ‘Why,’ says he, ‘that fire’s

just a made-up fire; it’s a heathen fire; it’s as cold as ice.... Just

take hold of the tulip.’ I took it, and it really was like ice. But it’s

fire all the same.... Now, how’s a man to know after that what’s God and

what’s Mumbo Jumbo?... It’s just the same with the machine-fish and the

steam-chicken—they’ve got a temperature, but they haven’t got a

conscience! There you see; it was the same with the publican: it was his

conscience that ached; and if he went and broke his back, it wasn’t his

back that felt bad because his wife ran away—it was his soul.”

“You put the cart before the horse again, my man! Why doesn’t the

steam-hen lay?”

“She doesn’t lay because she’s a machine invention, a creature of

temperature, not a creature of God. A steam-hen has nothing but

temperature; but a real hen has a conscience. That’s why she lays. She

lays because she’s capable of mental reflections and considerations.

There aren’t any mental reflections in temperatures, but there are in

souls!...”

“Are there?”

“Of course there are!”

“And were you ever in a madhouse?”

“Never, thanks be to God!”

“Glad to hear it! I was just thinking, perhaps they hadn’t looked after

you properly and kept the door locked....”

“No one can talk sense to a fellow like you, without being taken for a

madman.... What do you know about souls?”

“As much as you know about hens’ consciences, I dare say!”

“I know all about them!”

“Do you?”

“I tell you, yes! I understand the whole soul of a hen! What’s the use

of your cackling? Just you answer me one thing: Do you know how to make

a hen sit?”

“No, I don’t; and it’s not my business; I’m a wood merchant.”

[Illustration:

“TO THE ARCADIA AND MASKED BALLS.”

]

“Then, if it’s not your business, hold your tongue and listen.... The

hen, my man, is none too fond of sitting.... All she cares for is just

to lay her egg, and then go off again to the café-restaurant to lark

about with the cocks, and sing songs, and make love.... Why, you may

have a hen so frivolous that if you keep her three days on the eggs with

a coop over her, you can’t make her sit on them; she just wriggles away

to one side; she thinks to herself, like any fine lady, ‘If I take care

of the children myself, I may spoil the shape of my bust, and no one

will love me!’... And she wriggles away into a corner; and there the

poor eggs lie, out in the cold.... Well, then, when you take off the

coop,—up she jumps and off she runs, and clucks and cackles for all the

farmyard to hear; and complains of how she was shut up and ill-treated;

and the cock comes running up at her bidding to take her part; he’s

sorry for her, you see! And off they go into the bushes, to the

Islands,[43] to the Arcadia, and masked balls. Why, some hens are so

larky that one doesn’t know how to manage them! So this is what the

women do with a gay hen of that kind: they make little balls of bread,

and dip them in spirits and give them to her.... The gay young hen eats

them and gets tipsy; then they stick her on the eggs and put a coop over

her.... Of course while she’s asleep she doesn’t think about dancing and

masked balls; and by the time she wakes up, she’s got familiar like with

the eggs.... Then, you know, the eggs get warm from her, and she feels

the warmth of the eggs.... And when you take the coop off she can’t get

up! She knows as well as any one that it would be fun to go off on the

spree; she hears the cock calling her, and singing romances; she knows

he’s going off to the Islands; and yet she can’t get up, her conscience

won’t let her! She’s learned to pity her little ones; her soul has waked

up.... And there she’ll sit, till she sits all the feathers off her

body, and the flesh gets raw; she’ll sit till she aches all over! And

why? Because of her conscience!... Her conscience puts all kind of

thoughts into her head. She thinks about how she lived before she was

married (she has so long to sit, you know, she has plenty of time to

think), and how she went off on the spree, and what she saw, and how the

cock came up to her (she’ll remember every feather on his body a hundred

times over), and how it all happened, and then how she fell ill, and

then how her baby was born, and how she cried when it was born—she’ll

think over all that while she’s sitting.... Now, you see, all these

thoughts go out of her soul into the chicken’s soul, like; and the

chicken begins to think and feel as she does.... He gets all his soul

from the hen, while he’s the least bit of a thing,—and ideas, and

everything.... They’re just like little seeds, no bigger than a pin’s

head, just stuck about here and there in him; and then of course they

grow with him; and by the time he’s a grown-up fowl, they’re grown-up

thoughts.... No, no, mates! it isn’t a temperature of fifty degrees, or

whatever it is, that does it; it’s a soul speaking to a soul!... It’s

all the same with people. If a woman with child gets frightened at a

fire, and beats her head with her two hands, her child is born with

marks on its head—it’s just the same thing here. The hen thinks it over,

and sighs, and remembers all her youth, and everything that happened

afterwards; and all that enters into the chicken’s soul.... Why are so

many cocks hatched? Because the hen thinks so much about the cock, of

course; she remembers all his feathers.... Everybody knows that if a

peasant goes to the priest, or the _starshinà_,[44] or the village

clerk, he always take a cock for a present. The hens think a great deal

about cocks. So, you see, all these thoughts and cares pass from the

hen’s soul into the chicken’s; and the chicken gets to understand that

it will have to be young and unmarried, and then that cocks will come,

and it will have to lay eggs.... All that passes into its soul while

it’s in the egg.... But there is nothing of all that in hot water;

there’s nothing but temperature in it.... Do you suppose temperature

thinks about a hen’s life? Do you suppose temperature thinks about

cocks?—about how tired it is of sitting, but how it must keep on for the

baby’s sake? It doesn’t think about anything at all! And that’s why the

chicken comes out without any soul, or mind, or conscience, and doesn’t

care for anything.... It’s just like with the ’lectric light—it can’t

make the grass grow.... That’s what God is!... It isn’t twaddle, mates;

don’t you believe it! A soul’s one thing, and a make-up’s another. No,

no, it isn’t twaddle; it’s a thing that takes a lot of understanding!”

“I don’t know,” remarked the other man, indifferently; “it’s a bit too

learned for me.... Seems to me like as if there aren’t any other souls

except Christian souls.... And as for a hen’s conscience, I don’t know

about that ... don’t see it at all!”

“That’s just what I say: you don’t know.”

The discussion was evidently finished. But as the train had not yet

come, and no one had anything to do, the company would have found it a

little awkward to let the conversation drop at the conclusion of the

poultry-farmers speech. Every one felt (as is the case at the meetings

of learned societies) the need of _some_ kind of answer or continuation.

After a moment’s silence, therefore, one of the silhouettes (I think,

from his voice, it was the one who had laid the suicide of the publican

to the devil’s account) suddenly remarked—

“You talk about inventions—you’re right there; there’s no end to what

they’ve invented nowadays! One day, when I was in Petersburg, I was

going along the Isàkievskaya Square, and there was a grand sledge

driving past, with a beautiful horse; it must have cost thousands, for

harness and everything was splendid; and the driver was just like a

figure in a picture. And what do you think, mates! they’d got stuck on

to that driver, just here like—it’s as true as I live ... just in this

place....”

“Where?”

“Here, I tell you!... It’s the truth. What do you think he’d got stuck

on?... A watch!...”

“Stuck on to him there?”

“A great watch, half as big as my hand.... That’s so the gentleman in

the sledge can always see it. I should have felt ashamed, if I’d been

the driver.”

“I suppose the gentleman was so grand he couldn’t take the trouble to

unbutton his coat.”

“I s’pose he wanted to know, to a second, how long he was driving; his

time must have been precious! I dare say he had a lot of business.”

“Well!” interposed the poultry-farmer, contemptuously; “if that’s what

you call an invention! There are inventions of quite another sort

nowadays, my friend! People are getting too clever to live with their

inventions.”

The tone in which these words were uttered plainly showed that the

poultry-farmer was an ordinary hard-up peasant who found a difficulty in

paying taxes.

“When I lived, as a merchant’s driver, in Moscow, my master used to pay

me two roubles to go from Nikòlsk to Nìzhegorod.... ‘Only make haste,’

he would say; ‘I want to know if the goods have come in.’... But

nowadays he can just mumble something into a pipe, and it goes along a

wire, and there you are.... You can talk on a wire to people in

Nìzhegorod, or Smolensk, or anywhere you like; and as for us poor

drivers!”...

“That’s what they call a telephone,” remarked the poultry-farmer.

“Agafòn, or Falalèï, or anything you like ... all their inventions only

make it worse for us poor peasants. Wherever we go, there are always

inventions in the way, taking the bread out of our mouths! But it’s all

one to the tax-gatherer.”

All the gloomy images called up by the tragedy of the morning, and all

the fantastic ideas suggested by the lecture on souls, were put out of

everybody’s head by this peasant’s comment. His remark had brought back

the thoughts of all the group to the realities of life; and thus put an

end to this conversation of chance-met strangers, in the right and

proper manner—the manner in which, in our days, all kinds of discussions

end, no matter how they begin.

THE STORY

of

A KOPECK.

[Illustration]

BY

S. STEPNIAK.

PUBLISHED BY THE SECRET

PRESS.

Ah, my lads! it was a fine, free life in Russia when there were neither

landlords nor priests nor fat shopkeepers.

But that didn’t last long, the old men say, for the devil saw that the

peasant was getting the better of him; there was no stealing or lying on

earth, because every one lived happily; and the devil began to think—how

could he spoil the race of men. Seven years long he thought, never

eating, drinking, or sleeping—then he invented the priest. Then he

thought seven years more—and invented the barine.[45] Then he thought

seven years more—and invented the merchant.

Then the devil was pleased, and chuckled till all the leaves fell off

the trees.

So the devil sent priest, barine, and merchant to the peasant. But the

silly peasant, instead of shaking them off, clothed and fed them and let

them ride on his neck.

So from that time on there were no more good days for the peasant;

priests and barines and shopkeepers tore him in pieces.

Not with knives or swords they wounded him, but with a copper kopeck.

When the sun rose he thought: Where shall I get a kopeck? When the sun

set he thought, Where shall I get a kopeck?

Then the peasant prayed to his Mother Earth: “Oh, Mother Earth, tell me

where to get a kopeck.”

And the Earth answered, muttering: “In me is thy wealth.”

The peasant took a spade and began to dig. He dug all the day long, and

a second and a third day. He dug a deep, deep pit, but still there was

no kopeck. He dug through the soil and came to sand, through the sand

and came to mud. He dug and dug and baled out the water. At last he came

to clay. His spade was all spoiled, and yet there was no kopeck. Then he

began to dig with his hands, and dug and dug; then he came to stone and

could dig no further.

The peasant fell down on the breast of his Mother Earth, and asked her

why she had jested with him so bitterly. Suddenly he saw; under a clod

lay a copper kopeck. It was all green and spotted with damp, and as

rough as the earth itself.

The peasant seized it, kissed it, wrapped it up and put it in his

breast. Then he crawled out to God’s daylight and went home with his

kopeck.

As he went the birch tree with her thick tresses greeted him and asked—

“Peasant, peasant, why is thy clothing like a fishing-net?”

“I have gained a kopeck,” he answered.

“Thy kopeck costs thee dear,” said the birch tree, shaking her locks.

He went on further and the forest bird asked him—

“Peasant, peasant, why art thou all roughened and blistered like

oak-bark?”

“I have gained a kopeck.”

The bird whistled and flew away, saying to herself, “I’m glad I’m not a

peasant.”

He walked on, and the river fish asked him—

“Peasant, peasant, why art thou as thin as a herring?”

“I have gained a kopeck.”

The fish said nothing, she only whisked her tail and dived right down to

the river-bed to get away from the world, for fear she should be made

into a peasant too.

The peasant walked on and met a priest, so he took off his cap and went

to receive his blessing. The priest saw that the peasant was coming home

from work, so that he very likely had a kopeck; and the priest thought

he would like to have that kopeck himself. So he came up to the peasant

and said—

“Open your mouth.”

The peasant opened it.

“Put out your tongue.”

He put it out. The priest put his hand in his pocket, took out some

bread crumbs and sprinkled a little on the peasant’s tongue. What was

left he put by for another time.

“Now give me your kopeck,” he said.

The peasant gave it him and went home.

“Well,” said his wife, “did you get a kopeck?”

“Yes.”

“Where is it?”

“I gave it for the kingdom of heaven,” he answered.

“Thanks be to God,” said his wife; “and now come to dinner.”

They said grace and sat down to dinner—fir-bark and rain-water. When

they had finished the peasant gave thanks to God for these earthly

blessings, and lay down to rest.

Meantime the priest went home, thinking what he should do with the

peasant’s kopeck. He thought and thought; at last he said, “I know!” and

called the _Ponomàr_.[46]

The Ponomàr not only sang in the choir; he was not too proud to drive

bargains too.

So the Ponomàr came, and the priest said to him—

“Look here, long-mane! It’s a fast to-day, so I’ve had no meat. Here’s a

kopeck for you; roast me your sucking-pig, and see you don’t blab to any

one, or I’ll tear your hair out. But if you manage it properly I’ll give

you the tail to pick.”

The Ponomàr went away. “What next, Fat-paunch,” he thought. “No, no! You

can pick the tail yourself, and I’ll fatten up the sucking-pig and sell

it to the _Arkhierèy_[47] himself.”

And he took the kopeck to the village shopkeeper, and said—

“Look here, gossip, here’s a kopeck for you; give the priest a

sucking-pig for it and me a hive of honey for my trouble.”

The shopkeeper laughed, but he took the kopeck. “I’ll go to the

peasant,” he thought.

So he went to the peasant and showed him the kopeck.

“Do you see this kopeck?” he said. “Well, you give me for it your

sucking-pig and a hive of honey and a wolf-skin for a coat.”

“All right,” said the peasant, “I’m well rested now.”

First of all he gave the shopkeeper his sucking-pig, that he had kept

for a holiday—the greatest holiday in the year.

“Well, never mind,” he thought. “When my little son that lies in his

cradle now grows up we’ll have a proper holiday.”

Then he took a slice of bark-bread, put a knife into his boot, and went

to the forest. He walked on, sniffing; does it smell of honey anywhere?

No, not a bit. He went on and on; he had eaten his bread, and had to

live on roots and acorns, and still no honey. At last he smelt it

faintly in the distance, and went on till he came to a great lime-tree,

with the bees swarming round it. But see! a huge bear was standing by

the hollow trunk, and just going to put his paw in.

“Oh, Lord!” cried the peasant, “surely he is not going to take the honey

from me!”

He drew out his knife and rushed at the bear; the bear turned round,

drew himself up grandly, and came to meet him. The peasant hastily tore

off a lot of fine birch twigs, twisted them round his left hand, and

took the knife in his right.

They met. The bear put out his paw, but the peasant warded him off with

the left hand, and with the right plunged the knife up to its handle

right into his heart. Then he sprang back sharply, but unluckily he got

tangled in a branch, so that the bear was able to catch him, and they

met in a hand-to-hand fight. First the bear hugged him and nearly broke

his bones; then he hugged the bear. The blood rushed from the wound, and

Mishka fell down dead.

The peasant rubbed himself a little after the bear’s embrace, and

thought: “God is merciful even to peasants! If He had not sent me the

bear I should have had to go hunting for a wolf heaven knows how long;

but now, perhaps, the shopkeeper won’t mind taking a bear’s skin instead

of a wolf’s.”

He skinned the bear, took the honey, and went home with his prize. But

when the shopkeeper saw the bear-skin he shook his head and said—

“A bear-skin instead of a wolf-skin! What will you give into the

bargain?”

“Why, what can I give?” said the peasant; “my breeches?”

“All right.”

The peasant took off his breeches and gave them to the shopkeeper; then

he received his kopeck and took it to the barine to pay off his debt for

last year’s cattle-drinking tax; no doubt it was the barine’s prayers

that made the water flow in the river so that the peasant’s cattle could

drink.

As he went the peasant looked at the kopeck that he held in his hand. It

had passed through many hands, and was no longer so rough and rusty as

when he had given it to the priest for the kingdom of heaven. It was the

same kopeck, but the peasant did not recognise it, and said: “All right.

This is a nice kopeck, much cleaner than my old one. I’ll give it to the

barine now; it won’t soil his honour’s hands.”

So he went up to the manor-house, took off his cap and stood at the

gate. But as ill luck would have it the barinya was looking out of the

window to see whether a young officer was coming, and when she saw the

peasant without breeches she cried out—

“Ah! ah! I shall die!” turned up her eyes, fainted away, and dropped on

the carpet, only just kicking a little.

The servants ran to tell the barine that the barinya was graciously

pleased to see a peasant without breeches and is dying. The barine

rushed out and stamped his foot at the peasant and shouted at him, but

when he heard that the peasant had come to pay the tax he got quiet. He

graciously took the kopeck, and just wrote a note and gave it to the

peasant.

“Here, my man,” he said, “just take this note for me to the

_Stanovòy_.”[48]

The peasant took the note, gave it to the Stanovòy, and was just going

when he looked at the Stanovòy and stopped short. The Stanovòy was

clenching his fists and grinding his teeth and panting with rage.

“How dare you!” he shouted to the peasant; “you clown! how dare you

insult the lady?”

The peasant tried to explain, but it was no use; the Stanovòy grew more

furious than ever.

“What? You want to deny it, you hound! I’ll send you to Siberia! I’ll

flay you alive!”—and so on, and so on. And he flew at the peasant as if

he wanted to toss him or jump into his mouth.

The peasant’s wife heard the row, caught up a cock, ran to the Stanovòy

and dropped at his feet.

“Little father!” she cried, “there is a cock for you. Take it, and

welcome, but don’t kill my good man, or I and all the children will

starve.”

The Stanovòy almost choked with fury.

“A cock! How dare you offer me a cock! I’ve served God and the Emperor

for twenty years as Stanovòy and never suffered such an insult yet.

Bring me your goat at once, or I’ll have your cottage pulled down!”

There was nothing for it; they brought him the goat. The Stanovòy grew

calm and ordered the peasant to be only flogged and then let go free.

The peasant went home and told his wife to make him new breeches,

because he must soon go to work in the barine’s garden to pay off a

debt, and perhaps the barinya might see him again.

The barine was walking about the manor thinking what he should do with

the kopeck. At last he sent for the peasant.

“Look here, friend,” he said, “you said you wanted firewood. There’s a

stick in the kitchen-garden that you may have, only you must do an

errand for me. You must go to my friend, Saffròn Kouzmìch—he lives only

five hundred versts off—and tell him that I send him my compliments, and

ask him to visit me.”

“All right,” said the peasant.

So he went to Saffròn Kouzmìch. He walked and walked and walked. At last

he got to the place and gave his message.

Saffròn Kouzmìch came at once, for he and our barine were great friends;

when they were young they had served the Tzar together. So he came to

visit the barine, and they played for the kopeck. Saffròn Kouzmìch won

it, and drove away very merry and sang all the way home. But our barine

was very angry, so he called the _Sòtsky_[49] and told him to collect

taxes from the peasant.

The Sòtsky came to the peasant and asked for the taxes.

“Where am I to get the money from?” asked the peasant.

“Where you like. But you must get it somewhere, or the barine will send

for the Stanovòy again.”

The peasant scratched his head. However, there was nothing for it, he

must get the money. So he went to look for work. He went everywhere, and

could find no work. At last he came to the same gentleman who had won

the kopeck, and asked him for work. The gentleman called his steward.

“Is there any work?” he asked.

“Certainly,” said the steward, “the dam is broken down, and must be

mended at once. But it’s very dangerous work, for the workman may get

carried away by the water, and besides, it’s just under the mill-wheel.

It will do nicely for this peasant; any peasant will jump into the fire,

let alone the water, for a kopeck.”

“Very well,” said the gentleman.

The steward went to the peasant and said—

“Mend the mill-dam, and just build a cottage for me, because I took your

part and got you the job. You shall have a kopeck. Only mind you do the

cottage first, for we are in the Almighty’s hands, and you may get

drowned.”

“All right,” said the peasant.

He took an axe, cut down some trees, dragged them to the steward’s yard

and built a cottage. The steward came and looked—a capital cottage.

“Very good,” he said, and gave the peasant a glass to smell, out of

which he had drunk vodka two days before.

“Thank you,” said the peasant. “That was very kind.”

Then he went to mend the dam. The water was seething like a boiling pot.

He got the job done at last, but the water swept him down right under

the mill-wheel.

“He’s lost!” thought the steward; “the kopeck he has earned remains with

me.”

But the peasant dived, and so got out of the water safe and sound, and

the steward had to give him his kopeck. The peasant walked home with the

kopeck, thinking—

“God be thanked! Now the barine won’t demand the tax for a week. I shall

have time to do some work for myself, and to rest enough for the whole

year as well.”

[Illustration:

“‘VERY GOOD,’ HE SAID, AND GAVE THE PEASANT A GLASS TO SMELL, OUT OF

WHICH HE HAD DRUNK VODKA TWO DAYS BEFORE.”

]

He went straight to the manor. All the court was strewn with

juniper—every one was in black clothes, and there were two candles in

the window.

“What has happened?” asked the peasant.

“The barine is dead,” they told him.

The peasant burst into tears. “God rest his soul!” he thought; “he was a

kind barine.”

He asked for the barinya to take her the kopeck, but she could not see

him. She was broken-hearted about the barine, and a young officer was

consoling her in her grief. So she would let no one in. The peasant went

home, dug a pit in the cellar, and put his kopeck into it, just so that

it should not get lost.

Some days afterwards, as he was going home, he heard some one sobbing.

He looked round and saw a little girl sitting by the road and crying

bitterly.

“What are you crying for, my lass?” he asked.

The child told him that her brother was very ill, so that a priest had

to be called, to dip his finger in oil and rub it on the sick man’s

lips. The priest would not come for nothing, and they could not pay him.

The peasant laid his great rough hand on the child’s head, ruffled her

hair and said—

“Don’t cry, silly child! I’ll pay the priest.”

The little girl thanked him and ran to the priest; and the peasant went

down into the cellar, dug out his kopeck, and brought it to the light.

He looked at it and clasped his hands: he had recognised his kopeck—the

same that with such toil he had won from the bosom of Mother Earth.

Lying in the earth again, it had become just as green and rough as it

was then.... And the peasant wept bitter tears of anger and grief, for

he understood that all his labour had been in vain: he had gained

nothing but this same kopeck, which had been his already. Now it must go

to the priest again, and wander about the world once more, and every one

into whose hands it fell would ride upon his neck. And if by chance it

should come into his cottage again, he must only give it away once more,

either to the barine or to the priest.

* * * * *

“_I will give no one my kopeck!_” the peasant decided.

[Illustration:

“‘GIVE ME THE KOPECK! I’VE LISTENED TO ENOUGH OF YOUR NONSENSE!’”

]

He went to the neighbour’s cottage, and saw that the sick man’s lips

were already smeared with oil, and in the middle of the room stood the

priest, who had collected all kinds of things—cakes, eggs, flaxen

threads—and was looking round to see what more he could get. He saw

there was nothing more to give, and turned to the peasant.

“Well, now give me the kopeck.”

“Oh, little father, little father!” said the peasant; “do not rob the

Orthodox people!”

“You rascal!” cried the priest. “How dare you say such things to your

spiritual father!”

“Little father, little father! From my very soul I say it;—do not rob

the Orthodox people. Think what you are doing, little father!”

The priest caught up the baby’s cradle, rushed at the peasant and cried—

“Give me the kopeck! I’ve listened to enough of your nonsense!”

The peasant answered, holding him by the hands—

“No, little father, go your way, and God go with you; I will not give

you the kopeck. It would be a sin to encourage your sin.”

The priest lifted up the tail of his cassock and rushed straight to the

manor-house. He ran in and found the barinya with the officer. The

officer was merry, as merry as could be, for he had just asked the

barinya to be his wife, and she had consented.

“Why, little father, what’s the matter with you?” he asked, laughing.

“Has your wife been thrashing you?”

“My wife! That would be nothing serious; we could soon settle that. _The

peasant has mutinied_, that’s what has happened!” And he told them what

the peasant had said.

“Well, you’re a fine fellow to call yourself a priest! Your hair may be

long, but your head’s short enough! Couldn’t manage a peasant!”

“Bring him to me,” said the new barine to his lackey. “I won’t even

speak; I’ll just look at him, and you’ll see how tame he’ll get!”

The lackey went to fetch the peasant, and the barine twirled his

moustaches and waited to show off his courage to the priest and the

barinya. Presently the lackey came back with the peasant, and stood at

the door.

“Bring him here!” said the barine; “let me look at him.” And he glanced

sideways, now at the priest, now at the barinya.

They brought in the peasant. The barine stood in the middle of the room,

with his left arm akimbo, his right hand in his pocket, and his neck

stretched out, clenching his teeth and rolling his eyes. The peasant

looked at him, and got quite frightened.

“Little father!” he cried, “you must be ill! Wait a minute, poor fellow,

I’ll bring you some water to drink!”

Without waiting for an answer, he ran out into the yard, took off his

greasy cap, filled it from the water-tub, and brought it to the barine.

“There, little father, drink!”

But the barine sat blinking his eyes; he was ashamed before the priest

and the barinya. The barinya flew at the peasant; she was almost ready

to tear his beard out.

“How dare you bring the barine water in your filthy cap?” she cried.

He emptied the water out of the window and asked the barine—

“What do you want with me?”

The barine had recovered himself; he leaned back in the armchair, put

his hands in his pockets, and said—

“What are you mutinying for, my friend?”

“Mutiny? It’s a sin for the priest to rob the people, and to encourage

him is a sin too; that’s all!”

“What do you mean, my friend? Why, the priest is your spiritual father.

Do you want him to live by his own labour, instead of yours? I suppose

you’ll say next that I ought to support myself too, instead of your

working for me!”

“You’re no fool, even if you are a barine,” said the peasant. “You have

just guessed it; I won’t pay you either.”

The barine started up as if he had been stung, rushed at the peasant and

demanded the kopeck of him; but it was no use, the peasant would not

give him the kopeck.

The peasant went home, but officer, priest, and barinya sat thinking

what they should do with him. They thought and thought, and at last

agreed to send a message to the Stanovòy, that the peasant had mutinied,

and would not give up his kopeck, and that the Stanovòy must come and

manage him. The Stanovòy turned quite white when he read the letter.

“Heavens!” he thought; “my end is come, the peasant will murder me!”

However, he was an official, and must go. He put four pistols into his

belt, mounted his fleetest horse and rode off. He rode slowly till he

came to a hundred paces from the peasant’s cottage, then started his

horse at a furious gallop, and rushed past the cottage like a whirlwind,

crying out—

“Give up the kopeck! Give up the kopeck, you villain! I will tear you in

pieces if you don’t; I will sweep you off the face of the earth!” And he

lashed his horse furiously.

There was a fearful hubbub in the cottage. The peasant was not at home;

but when the Stanovòy made such a noise outside, the cow began to moo,

the pig began to grunt, the sheep began to bleat, and the dogs jumped

over the fence and rushed, barking, after the Stanovòy.

“I am lost!” he thought. He dropped the reins, caught at the horse’s

mane and closed his eyes, so as not to see death, and the horse rushed

on and knocked against a huge stone. The Stanovòy was flung head over

heels on to the ground, where he lay and thought: “I am killed! God

receive my soul!”

The dogs ran up, smelt him all over, and ran home again, wagging their

tails. He lay still, waiting for death. He waited and waited, but it did

not come; at last he opened one eye, then the other. Then he cautiously

lifted his head and looked round. His horse lay beside him with its legs

broken.

“Oh, Lord!” thought the Stanovòy, “what shall I do? The peasant will

seize me and take me into captivity!”

[Illustration]

He almost died of terror, but he plucked up his courage and set off to

run. He ran on, stumbling and falling, now among the brambles, now in

the mud, till he got so dirty and scratched, that he looked like a wild

creature. At last he reached the police-station, and sat down at once to

write a report to the Governor, stating that the peasant had mutinied

and refused to give up his kopeck; that he, the Stanovòy, had gone to

persuade him; but that the peasant would not listen, and in answer had

bellowed like a whole herd of cattle. Then the peasant had loosed upon

him a peculiar breed of dogs, which he had got for the purpose; these

dogs were fearful to see—the size of calves—and ran like the wind. Then

the peasant had flung a great stone at him, as big as a bull, and broken

the forelegs of his horse.

The Governor read this report and said—

“The Stanovòy must be rewarded for his bravery with St. George’s Cross!”

Then he ordered off a squadron of soldiers to fight the peasant. Early

next morning the Governor, the Stanovòy, and the squadron of soldiers

started off on their campaign against the peasant. In the evening they

reached the wood where the peasant lived. The soldiers pitched their

tent and lay down to sleep, and the officers met in the Governor’s tent

to hold council and decide how they should capture the peasant. Finally

they agreed that a direct attack was dangerous, so they must wait till

dawn, when the peasant would come out into the wood to wash in the

spring, and then surround and seize him.

The next morning they surrounded the spring, and hid themselves in the

bushes, so that the peasant should not see them. Just as he was going to

stoop down and wash, they suddenly blew their trumpets and beat their

drums and shouted on all sides of him.

“What can it be?” thought the peasant, rubbing his eyes. But the

Stanovòy, fired with courage, rushed forwards, like one possessed,

waving his sword and shouting to the soldiers—

“Courage, men! We will die for our father the Tzar, and for the Orthodox

faith!”

Then he caught up a banner and cried—

“Follow me! hurrah!”

“Hurrah! hurrah! hurra-a-ah!” yelled the soldiers, and charged upon the

peasant.

He tried to defend himself, but it was useless; in a moment they seized

him, tied his hands and led him to the Governor. But he had time to

break several guns, and bite through two bayonets.

“Give up the kopeck!” shouted the Governor.

“I won’t!” said the peasant.

So they put him in prison and tried him. They sentenced him, for the

crime of mutiny and obstinacy, to receive twenty-five thousand lashes,

and then to be sent back to his former habitation. Further (in order

that he might not continue to hide his kopeck), to feed a squadron of

soldiers, who should be billeted upon him until he gave up the kopeck.

And for the bayonets that he had bitten through, and the Stanovòy’s

uniform that was spoiled, to pay costs.

The punishment was inflicted, and the peasant sent home. Then the

soldiers arrived, and sat down to dinner.

The peasant killed them a sheep. They ate it and cried—“More!”

He killed a pig—“More! More!”

He killed a cow—“Why,” they cried, “we are hungrier than before dinner!”

“If they go on like this,” thought the peasant, “they’ll end by eating

me.”

“Wait a minute, mates,” he said; “I’ll go to the beehives and get you

honey.”

“All right,” said the soldiers.

He took his cap and ran out of the cottage.

“Now sit and gnaw logs for honey, accursed brood!” he thought; “and if

you don’t like that, try bricks instead, but I’ll not feed you any

more!”

And he went away into the deep, dense forest. He walked on for three

days and three nights, till, in the evening of the third day, he came to

wild thickets, where no human foot had ever trod. Then he sat down on a

hillock, looked around him, lifted his left foot and took from under his

ankle-straps his kopeck—that same kopeck for which he had suffered so

much. He looked at it and said—

“I have suffered many griefs for thee, my kopeck, since first I carried

thee in my bosom, to bring down on me the birds of prey. I know that

without thee I shall be still more unhappy; but they shall rather tear

out my eyes than thou, my kopeck that I have toiled for, shalt go to

serve my enemies!”

And he dug a pit and buried his kopeck. Then he lay down on the grave of

his kopeck and thought in bitterness of spirit—

“_If thou hast no kopeck, lie down in thy coffin; if thou hast a kopeck,

drown thee in the river!_”

And the peasant sighed heavily, heavily, and he fell down upon the earth

and prayed, saying—

“Oh, Mother Earth! teach me, for I know not, what I shall do, that I may

have not only sorrow and misery—that even in _my_ life there may be

bright days!”

And the peasant fell asleep.

* * * * *

Sunrise is wiser than nightfall. Next morning the peasant awoke, and,

after pondering deeply, he broke off a strong bough, cut it with a stone

and made a spade; with this he raised an earthen hut. And he covered it

with brushwood, and filled the chinks with moss, and roofed it over.

Then he closed the entrance with a stone and took up his dwelling there.

Time passed on, and a household grew up about the peasant, with fields

and pastures and all things needful. There he dwelt and passed his days

in peace and joy, praising God.

What then, my lads? If the good folk were but a bit wiser and would

stand up for themselves and their own, maybe every man might live in

peace and plenty, and never need to slip away and hide his head in the

forest. Think of that!

_THE DOG’S PASSPORT._

(TOLD BY A PEASANT.)[50]

Well, you see, once there was a man with an old dog; and he took the old

dog and turned him out of doors, he did. So the dog up and says: “Give

me a passport that I lived with you.” So the man wrote him a passport,

and let him go his way—to the four winds. Well, the dog went his way,

and at last he came to another man as hadn’t got a dog; and he just hung

on and begged him to let him bide. So the man took him, and he bided

there one day, and two days,—and all at once he saw the cat. And it was

a fine cat. And all their lives they two had never cast eyes one on the

other. So the dog says—“Who are you?” and the cat says—“I am the cat,

and I live here, and I look after the master.... And who are you?” she

says. “I am the dog,” says he; “and I’ve got a passport; I live in the

back-yard, and look after the master.” “And where’s the passport?” “Here

it is, under my paw.” “Give it to me; I’ll hide it away safe, or you

will be getting it all sopping wet when the rain comes.” “Well,” says

the dog, “take it, but give it me back when I tell you.” So those two

were right good mates together. Only one night the cat ran after a wee

mousie, and she dropped the passport in the old straw, and the gammer

took it and burnt it up in the fire, she did. Well, then the gaffer took

the dog and turned him out of doors, because he hadn’t got his passport;

and the dog called the cat. “Give back my passport!” “It’s gone,” says

she; “I lost it!” And that dog, it just flew at the cat, and tore it

into little wee bits.... There now! If the cat hadn’t happened to have

burnt the passport, those two would have been mates like, and the dog

would have bided at home. Only think of that!

[Illustration:

THE DOG’S PASSPORT.

]

A TRIFLING DEFECT IN THE MECHANISM.

[Illustration]

BY

GLYEB USPÈNSKY.

“What I think about it is this: If a man is altogether innocent, there

isn’t any need at all to punish that man. But when you get a man that’s

either a criminal, or else what you may call a villain, or anything of

that kind, then you should punish him. That’s all.”

The above reflections were uttered slowly, deliberately, and

significantly, by the steward of the little steamer _Perch_, as he sat

in his tiny crockery-filled pantry, cutting up a wheaten loaf into thin

slices on the window-sill. The _Perch_, which travels once daily along

the river Vỳdra, from the railway station to the little provincial town

of M., is never very rich in passengers. Not many people care to sit for

several hours at a stretch in the cabin, awaiting the moment when enough

people shall have collected, “one at a time,” to repay the owner of the

_Perch_ for the cost of the fifty-verst journey. Impatient passengers,

instead of waiting for the steamer, prefer to drive in to M., or to go

by the branch railway which runs from the main line to the next posting

station. Thus the only passengers who travel on the _Perch_ are those

who are in no hurry, who do not care whether they reach the town to-day

or to-morrow, and who, indeed, even prefer to travel in a leisurely

manner and at their ease; there is always so much room on the _Perch_

that you can stretch yourself out at full length, undress, go to

sleep—anything. This state of things is very convenient and profitable

for the steward. The public saunters on to the steamer, in a gradual,

indefinite way; and it is really not worth while ever to close the

refreshment-bar, as it would have to be opened twenty times a day. This

refreshment-bar, being constantly before the eyes of passengers who have

nothing to do and feel no desire to hurry anywhere, can hardly fail to

be in demand. Sometimes a man will sit lazily looking at the various

drinks exposed, and will finally say: “Here, just pour me out some of

that; I don’t particularly want a drink, but the bottle takes my fancy;

what’s in it? Give me a glass.” And once the refreshment-bar is resorted

to, the passengers, who have been waiting so long for the little

mosquito of a steamer to whistle, involuntarily slip into a chat;

somehow or other, all the people travelling on the _Perch_ are sure to

strike up acquaintance together and enter into a general conversation.

This was the case on the present occasion. In the second-class cabin

about a dozen people of various kinds were sitting or lying on the sofas

beside the tables and the bar window. There were two army officers, who,

from their appearance and conversation, might have been shopkeepers in

disguise, so feeble, effeminate, and altogether unmilitary was their

manner; they were talking about their provisions, about “comfort and

good living,” about the minutest of injustices and intrigues—intrigues

over hay, and soldier’s kvass, and one thing and another. There were

shopkeepers, artizans, and four money-lenders, evidently regular

“skinflints,” who sat apart, drinking tea together, and abruptly

snapping out broken phrases about their “business”: “Two six and

six.”—“One rouble five.”—“And the goods?”—“All right.”—“Did you

contract?”—“Yes,” &c.... In the intervals between these remarks they

were affected by sudden, loud hiccoughing, almost like a volley of guns

at a distance.

For some time the conversation among the passengers rather flagged, and

was in no way interesting. The officers complained that every year they

had to “make up out of their own pockets,” and boasted, each to the

other, of their irreproachable character. The “skinflints” alternately

snapped and hiccoughed; altogether, it was rather dull. In reference to

what topic the steward uttered the sentence quoted at the beginning of

this sketch I have no recollection. I did not hear all the previous

conversation, and do not know what had made the steward feel it

necessary to express his opinion about punishment; but that opinion

somehow aroused in me a desire to listen further.

Having cut the bread into thin slices, and carefully swept up the crumbs

into his fat hand, the steward began to cut thin slices of cheese, and

continued, as gravely as before—

“That’s my opinion. If a man’s innocent and hasn’t deserved any

punishment, I should like to know why I should ill-use him?”

“Very true,” remarked a shopkeeper, who was sitting with a bottle of

beer.

“On the other hand,” continued the steward, “if we come across a regular

scoundrel, then most certainly the law should be obeyed.”

“Of course it should. There’s no need to pity a scoundrel.”

“Then, again, you see, to punish a man is easy enough, there’s nothing

very clever in that; you just take him and put him in the lock-up, or

give him a thrashing—you don’t need much work for that, or much brains

either.... But, first of all, you must find out, and go into the matter,

and get to the root of it, and find out whether the man really is guilty

or not; that’s the great thing. Supposing you’ve flogged or locked up a

man, and afterwards it turns out that he was innocent, what then? It’s a

bad business, that. But once you’ve made it out, and know all about it,

then bury him alive if you like; that’ll be all fair and lawful.... But

to go and ill-use a man before you know what it is about yourself—any

fool can do that. That’s what I think. Will you have a sandwich?”

The plate of sandwiches was held out towards the two officers who were

sitting next to the bar.

“I don’t mind,” half-reluctantly said one of them, adding, after a

moment, “By the by, just pour me out a glass of that stuff in the green

bottle; I’ll try what it’s like.... Won’t you have some?”

“Well, I don’t care if I do,” said the other officer, still more

reluctantly; “you can give me a glass.”

For want of anything else to do, they began to eat and drink. The

steward, for his part, started on some operation on a piece of ham,

beginning by blowing on it, and continued—

“One ought to look into these matters, and not go into them at

random.... Why, there are cases when, if you judge a matter properly,

the man that everybody thought was a villain can prove his innocence.

Before you go into it, you think he ought to be hanged; and then you go

into it, and think about it, and he’s done no wrong at all. But to go

and punish a man without ever knowing what it’s about—I say there’s no

justice in that at all! Why do they have law courts, and trials, and

judges, and all that sort of thing? Why, because any jackass knows how

to knock a man about for nothing; but you have to go into it first, and

then say what’s to be done.... Why, there’s a lad that serves on this

very steamer. He’s been in trouble—he killed a man. Now, what’s the law

for that? Why, a halter, or underground mines!... That’s so, isn’t it?

And yet the fellow’s all right and straight. And why is that? Because

they went into the matter, and made it all out.... There, I’ll call the

man himself, and he shall tell you about it”

He went out on to the landing at the foot of the winding staircase that

led up to the deck, and shouted—

“Mikhàïlo![51] come here! Come here a minute!... He’ll tell you

himself....”

Mikhàïlo appeared at once. He had evidently been gambling with some

friends, for he was holding several greasy cards in his hand. He was a

sturdy young fellow, with a peculiarly naïve, almost childlike face. He

sprang as lightly as a bird down the iron steps, with his strong, bare

legs sticking out from a pair of pink cotton trousers much too short for

him, and stood before his master, with his belt unfastened, evidently in

a hurry to go back to his game. His whole figure and the expression of

his face showed that the game was in full swing and had reached an

exciting point.

“What’s up?” he asked, hastily.

“Come over here a minute.”

“Tell me what you want. I can hear you from here.”

“Come along into the cabin, you wooden figure head! You’ll have time to

finish your game afterwards. Come and tell the gentlemen how you killed

the old man.”

“What the plague!... What did you call me for? I thought.... Is that all

you’ve got to talk about? Catch me!...”

He turned back to the staircase, but the steward caught him by his

shirt.

“Hold hard! What a jackass it is! Can’t you answer when you’re asked

civilly?”

“What’s the good of going over all that nonsense again?”

“Who asked you to go over it?... I want you to tell the gentlemen how it

happened. You lived with a wood merchant then, didn’t you?”

“No, I didn’t. He’d only just taken me on that very day; and I’d never

lived there at all——”

“All right; he’d just engaged you.... Well, what happened next?”

“Nothing at all happened next.... He engaged me, you see, to guard the

timber.... He’d got a timber yard; ’twas worth hundreds and

thousands.... He’s a millionaire, he is.”

“Where did it happen? Where does the merchant live?”

“’Twas in Moscow, sir.... I came straight up from the country to him....

How old was I? Don’t suppose I was more than sixteen.... Well, he

engaged me; and says he, ‘Look here, boy, if you do your duty, I’ll

reward you for it; but if you go conniving with thieves, I’ll let you

know. I sha’n’t say many words about it, but I shall just smash you into

little bits. But if so be as you do your best, I’ll raise your wages in

a month. You keep your eyes open all night; don’t go to sleep; and if

you see a thief, just you punch his head!’ You see, sir, these here

thieves were always stealing that man’s timber; so, of course, I did as

I was told—what else should I do? A lad doesn’t come up to town for his

own pleasure. If you get a place, you must try and do your best in it,

and please your master, so that he’ll raise your wages, and not swear at

you or hit you over the head. So I set my mind to do his bidding. I

chose a good cudgel—I pulled out a bit of timber, you know, a stout

heavy sapling, with the root on. Well, I cut and trimmed it and made it

all nice; and when it got dark, I put on my coat and went out.... It was

in autumn, and a very dark night.... So I walked up and down, up and

down, and suddenly I heard some one move. I called, and he didn’t

answer. ‘He wants to hide,’ thought I; so I went up and gave him a good

one with my cudgel. It must have caught him sideways; then I hit again,

straight down from the top, and he just gave a squeal like a hare.

We-ell, after that, I went to poke him a little with the butt-end; I

poked him a bit, but it was a dark night, and I couldn’t see anything; I

could only feel something soft, and it didn’t give a sound.... Well,

when I couldn’t make him speak, I went to tell the master.... The master

hadn’t gone to bed yet.... So I came in, and I said, ‘Please, I think

I’ve done a mischief to a thief. He was scrabbling about in the wood,

and so I knocked him down.... And I can’t make him speak,’ says I; ‘and

he only squeaked a bit, like a hare.’... Well, so then the master called

his coachman, and told him to take a lantern and go and see what had

happened.... So we went.... Well, and after all, it was only a

beggar.... But it wasn’t my fault. I was told to punch his head, and I

did as I was bid. Supposing he had stolen the timber, what then? Then I

suppose I should have got——”

“There, shut up!... Tell your story, and don’t argufy. What was the next

thing?”

“The next thing was that when we looked at the man his head was all

smashed in and his arm was broken.... Lord! it makes me feel creepy-like

just to remember!... Well, we looked at him, and the coachman, he said:

‘The master’ll have to be told.’ So I went to the master, and I said:

‘Please, sir, I’ve smashed a man,’ and I told him all about it.—‘Surely

he isn’t dead!’—‘Yes, that he is.’—And how he did swear at me! Then he

told me to go and tell the police. So off I went to find a

police-station. I hunted all over the place, and couldn’t find one, hang

it all! And when I did find one, everybody was asleep. However, I waited

and waited, and at last somebody came out and asked me what I wanted.

‘I’ve smashed a man,’ said I, and so on. Well, I told him all about

it—why not? I hadn’t done any wrong. I didn’t want to hit the man.... I

told him everything. Well, he wrote it all down.—‘And where’s the

cudgel?’ said he.—‘I left the cudgel in the kitchen,’ said I.—‘Go and

fetch the cudgel,’ said he; ‘it’ll be wanted.’—So I went and fetched it.

Well, I gave them the cudgel. Then they put me into a dark room. In the

morning they tied my hands and brought me into another room. Then they

began asking questions. Well, whatever they asked me, of course I

answered. Two months after, they had a trial. It was the same thing all

over again:—‘You killed him?’—‘I did.’—‘How?’—So I told them: ‘First I

banged him in the side, and then I banged him on the forehead.’—‘What

with?’—‘A cudgel.’—You confess it?’—’Course I do.’—‘You plead

guilty?’—‘Which way am I guilty? I was told to punch his head, and I

punched it.... A servant’s business is to do as he’s bid.’... Well, they

thought about it, and they judged about it, and they wrote, and they

talked; and then they came out and said:—‘Here, you’re not guilty; you

be off!’—So I went....”

“And the merchant?”

“Yes, they called up the merchant, too; but all he would say was:—‘Of

course the timber had to be watched. All my capital’s in timber.... It’s

always getting stolen.... The police are never there when you want

them.... How was I to know he was going to keep watch that way?’...

Well, and how was I to know who was there? I heard somebody scrabbling

about, and I banged him.... So that’s how it all ended: I wasn’t guilty;

nor the merchant wasn’t guilty neither.... Only he was a regular Jew, he

was—he wouldn’t take me back again afterwards. He said:—‘You set about

your work too much in earnest. I only promised you six roubles, and you

went and killed a man straight off; if I were to _pay_ you your wages,

the Lord knows what you’d do with your cudgel!’ So he took a soldier,

and gave me the sack.... Reg’lar Jew, he was!... Well, what else do you

want?”

“Is that the whole story?”

“That’s all.... Want anything else?”

“No, that’s all; you can go.”

The lad rushed up the steps like a whirlwind, and the steward started

afresh upon his dissertation:—

“That’s how it was,” said he; “when you come to think of it, it seems as

if the lad ought to be locked up; killed a man and smashed his head

in—that’s clear enough. But when they came to look into the case, and

understood all about it, he turns out innocent.... That’s just what I

was saying: If so be as a man’s really guilty, you’ve got to punish him;

but, however much it looks as if a man was guilty, if you can prove him

innocent, you should; and if you go and punish an innocent man, I say

there isn’t any justice in it.... That’s what I think....”

“Ye-e-es,” remarked the shopkeeper, to whom the steward mainly addressed

himself. Pouring out the remainder of his bottle of beer, he added: “Of

course, it would really be fairer-like ... to do so ... that’s true.

Give me another bottle.”

The steward uncorked a bottle, took the cork off the corkscrew, put it

back in its place, came out of his bar, and brought the bottle to the

shopkeeper. At that moment there rose from one of the sofas, pulling

down a print shirt over an enormous paunch, another passenger, also a

tradesman. He was a man of gigantic height, with a good-natured

expression of face. He went up to the steward, and taking him by the

shoulder, asked, with a slight smile—

“But the peasant, most respected sir, what about him? Is he guilty, or

not?”

“What peasant?”

“Why, the one that came by his death—the old beggarman.... Whereabouts

are we to place him in the matter? You see, you can put it how you like,

but we can’t get over the fact that there’s a man missing! He lived, and

he walked about, and said his prayers, and all the rest of it, and all

of a sudden he’s not there.... What about him, then? What sort of

position is he in?”

For a moment the steward was rather put out of countenance by this

unexpected question, which greatly perplexed him. But his embarrassment

was relieved by a general burst of laughter, in which he joined.

“Oh, that’s what you’re talking about! I thought you meant some other

peasant.... Ye-e-es, that’s a sort of thing that one may call sudden.”

“That’s just it!” continued the fat man; “that’s always the way in these

parts: everybody’s innocent, and before you’ve time to turn round,

somebody’s given up the ghost in the middle of the scrimmage!”

“Yes, that’s very true; it does happen sometimes,” meekly assented the

steward, going back into the bar; “it certainly happens sometimes.”

“It does, sir. And more than that happens sometimes—I ought to know

that!... After all, that old man had made a mess of it, in one way, by

going and hanging about the timber yard. You see, it wasn’t altogether

at random; people should keep away from timber.... But sometimes it’ll

happen this way: A man sits quiet, never mixes up in anything, fears God

and honours his rulers, and does everything all right and proper, and

all of a sudden, without either why or wherefore, people come and begin

hitting him over the head and on the back, and boxing his ears, and

knocking him down, and banging his head again, and giving him black

eyes, and pitching him face downwards on the floor, and turning him over

and kicking him, and poking his head into the gutter, ... and then

afterwards, here you come and say, ‘nobody’s guilty’! And it turns out

that the man who stuck your head in the gutter is as innocent as a dove.

And the man who dragged you about face downwards is not guilty

either!... And then, at the end, the man that got all the knocks turns

out to be innocent, too.... ‘Go to your homes, good people; you’re all

innocent!’ And all the same, when a man goes home, however much he’s

proved innocent, his nose is broken and his mug’s all swelled-up, just

as if—. Doesn’t seem to me to make much difference, whether he’s

innocent or guilty; anyway, three teeth are knocked out of his jaw, and

his arm’s broken, and he’s been shamed and disgraced, into the bargain.

What’s one to think about that, in your opinion?”

“Ah! yes,” said the steward, quite subdued, and not even attempting to

orate; “certainly that’s not good manners.”

“There you are! And yet nobody’s guilty.... One says: ‘I’ve got papers!’

and the next one says; ‘I’ve got papers!’ and the third one’s got

papers, too.... But look here, my good sirs, I’d like to know what all

this means! You’ve all got your papers, but I’ve got my own skin! I can

buy all the paper I like for three kopecks, but I can’t buy a new jaw

anyway.... Seems to me there’s a difference.”

The giant tradesman spoke with evident excitement; he gesticulated with

his hands, grew red in the face, and finally, quite out of breath, sat

down in the middle of his sofa.

“That’s the sort of thing that happens, gentlemen!”

“Yes, it does happen, of course,” assented one of the skinflints; “a man

gets half smashed, and nobody’s to blame.”

“Exactly so,” said the tradesman; “maybe something of that kind has

happened to you?”

But the skinflint only growled, lifted his saucer to his lips, and made

no answer.

“Do you mean,” said one of the officers to the giant, “that anything of

that kind has happened to you?”

“Not only ‘that kind,’ but such a thing happened to me, that I think if

I’d given way to my feelings I should have come to grief altogether....”

“What was it all about?”

“That’s just exactly what I can’t tell you!... What did the lad smash

the old man’s head about? There you are—it’s the same thing here. You

see, it’s a sort of thing——”

The giant broke off, and began more composedly:—

“The main reason.... First of all, I must tell you about my illness. You

see what sort of a stomach I’ve got!...”

“You surely don’t mean to say that a stomach could play any part in an

affair of that kind?” interrupted one of the officers.

“Part! Such a part was played as I wouldn’t wish to a Tartar!”

“Because of your stomach?”

“That’s just the very reason that I can’t explain the whole thing

properly to you. I’ll tell you just how it happened, from the

beginning.”

“Very interesting to hear!”

“Well, you see, it was this way: This same stomach of mine was the root

of all the mischief. It began to swell up when I was a little child.

There weren’t any good doctors in those days: and people of our sort

went to wise women, and soldiers, to be cured. We lived in the country,

and kept the mill—it was a big mill. Well, there was a sort of barber

fellow that set to work to cure me. He rubbed and smeared me, and he

gave me stuff to drink, and he pulled me by the legs, and in fact he

spoiled my inside altogether, so that I’ve never got well of it to this

day—I’ve got some doctor’s stuff with me this very minute.... Very

well, ... I must tell you that I live, with my wife and children, near

Sousàlov—a district town it is—at the mill. I often go into town. Well,

about three years ago a new apothecary came to the town, and I got to

know him. So I thought: ‘I’ll make friends with him, and perhaps he’ll

give me some help about this stomach of mine.’ Well, so I made

acquaintance with him. He was a good, kind-hearted young fellow. So I

told him all about it, and he thought it over, and gave me a box of

pills. ‘You take these,’ says he, ‘and do as I tell you.’ And I wasn’t

to eat this, and I wasn’t to drink that, and so on; he was very

particular. So I began to take the pills, and I got better; and whenever

I’d finished one box, I had another. Only the next thing that happened

was that my inside got to want more and more of these pills; if ever I

was without them it just half killed me. At first a box would last me a

week; but, after a bit, I’d finish it up in one day. I went and talked

about it to the apothecary. He thought it over, and, says he, ‘I’m

afraid this is a bad business’; but, all the same, he risked it and went

on. And at last he began making such pills for me that he’d put three

doses into one pill, and when he rolled it up it would be as big as a

walnut. However, I took them, and they did me no harm. All of a sudden,

gentlemen, my apothecary leaves the town. ‘Where are you going?’ said I.

‘Can’t get on here,’ said he; ‘no profit.’ I was sorry to lose him; he

was a good fellow, and then he’d helped me, too; but there was nothing

for it—he went away. So I had to get on as best I could, now with one

doctor, now with another. So it went on for about a year and a half; and

my wife and I thought we’d build a house for ourselves in the

main-town.[52]... Because, you see, our children were growing up, and we

had to put them to school. We wanted to do the best for them, and we’re

not badly off; thanks be to God, we’ve money to pay with. We thought and

thought it over, and at last we went to the town, and bought a bit of

land, and started building. I used to go into town to see after the

building, sometimes for three days at a time, sometimes for five. I

often used to go into Moscow to buy materials. The main-town is on the

railway, and only eighty versts from Moscow; it isn’t more than three

hours in the train, so I found it cheaper to buy what I wanted in

Moscow—nails and cramp-irons and all such things—for the house. Well,

one day I was going into Moscow for things, and who should I meet in the

train but my apothecary.... ‘Ah! it’s you, old fellow! How do you come

here? Where have you been? Where are you going?’... We were right glad

to meet again. Well, we got talking, of course; he told me about his

affairs, and I told him about mine. He’d been in some other town, and

hadn’t got on there either; and now he was going to Moscow. Then of

course I told him how we were building a house. And after a bit we got

talking of my illness. So I said to him: ‘For the Lord’s sake,’ says I,

‘help me like a good fellow; little father, give me some more pills! I’m

half killed.’ ‘All right,’ says he, ‘if you like. When we get to

Moscow,’ says he, ‘I’ll go into a chemist’s and get all the things, and

make the pills at home, and give them to you.’ So we arranged where we

were to meet. ‘Come to the Patrìkyevsky Tavern,’ says he, ‘the day after

to-morrow. We’ll have some cabbage salad together, and talk over old

times; and I’ll give you the pills.’ So that was all right....”

The narrative was interrupted for a moment by the entrance of the young

fellow who had just told about the manslaughter. He came running nimbly

down the steps and stopped at the door.

“What do you want?” asked the steward.

“Nothing; I just came.”

“I suppose you were beaten at cards?”

“I’ll beat them some day,” answered the lad, leaning against the lintel

of the door, and rubbing one bare foot against the other.

“So that was settled,” continued the narrator, “I went about Moscow and

bought the goods, and arranged my business properly, and at the time

we’d agreed on I went to Patrìkyev’s. I walked through all the rooms,

but my friend wasn’t there; so I sat down and waited, but he never came.

I waited two whole hours, till at last I felt quite ashamed; so I

ordered something, and ate it alone, and went away without him.

Stupid-like, I’d forgotten to ask his address. ‘I shall have to wait

another day,’ thought I, for I can’t get on without the pills. So I

stopped another night, and next day, at the same time, I went to the

tavern again. Still he wasn’t there! Well, there was nothing for it, I

had to get back home. I didn’t go straight home, I went into the town,

because I had bought some things—bottles, and flasks, and one thing and

another.... I thought I’d manage to put up for the night there; the

stove was all finished in the kitchen, and the windows were put in; so I

went to the house. I’d got a peasant there for a watchman—Rodiòn his

name was; there were ten carpenters in the house; they were just going

to bed. I came in and told Rodiòn to heat the samovar. I noticed that he

looked at me in a queer sort of way. He did what I told him, and all

that, but I could see there was something wrong; I couldn’t rightly make

it out.... He kept on looking at me.... I told him—‘Put down that box,

and see you don’t set it too near the stove; for if it should get too

warm—the Lord forbid!’... Because you see, I’d got varnish and spirit in

the box.... Well, when I told him that, he just opened his eyes and

stared at me. First he stared at me, and then he stared at the box. He

stared, and stared, and then he went away. I sat and waited a quarter of

an hour, but he didn’t come back; so I went out into the passage, and

there stood the samovar, quite cold. ‘I wonder if he’s gone for water,’

I thought. I called, and called, and he didn’t answer. It was a

wonderful sort of business altogether. I went and got out some dried

fish (I’d brought two pounds of it from Moscow—good dried sturgeon, at

eighty kopecks a pound)—I got out some fish, and cut a slice of white

bread, and laid it on, and made a sort of sandwich, you know, and

crossed myself, and just opened my mouth—the Lord make us truly

thankful—when all of a sudden there was such a crackling and howling and

blowing of whistles all round the house; and all the carpenters ran to

the windows and stared like stuck pigs.... I threw down my sandwich and

ran to the door, and knocked up right against a uniform. And there was

Rodiòn pointing at me, and saying ‘That’s he!’ Seven or eight of them

caught hold of me and began to drag me along; and I, of course, yelled

and shouted, ‘Hold hard! What’s the matter?’—‘You’ll be told

there!’—‘Anyway, let me dress myself,’ says I; ‘it’s autumn; it’s

cold!’—‘We haven’t got any ladies!’... It was no use, they’d got me

tight. I didn’t know what it was all about; I couldn’t make head or tail

of it. And there they began dragging me along. And there were the

carpenters and workmen and watchmen and doorkeepers—the Lord defend us!

And why, and what it was all about, I couldn’t get the hang of it at

all. ‘For mercy’s sake,’ I shrieked to them; ‘I’m a tradesman; I’m a

householder; I’m a man of property; I’ve got a wife and children!’...

And all the answer I got was: ‘Yes, by one of the stations in Moscow

there were householders living, too, and they’d got their wives.’...

When the people heard that, oho! you should have seen how they squared

up to me! I saw it was a bad business; I’d got into hot water, and no

mistake; and didn’t even know what for.... When they said _that_, I just

felt my flesh creep.... I told them: ‘I’m innocent! May the lightning

strike me dead if I.... I’ve prayed for him with tears.... I’d give my

life for him!’... I was innocent before God; and yet I just shook all

over! I began thinking: ‘Supposing there turns out to be some evidence!

There may be something.... God knows! What will become of me then? What

shall I do?’ My very inside got cold. Then I began thinking: ‘Heaven

defend us! They’ll take my wife too; and it’ll kill her! She’d die if

they just looked at her! What will she do when she hears about it?’ In

fact, I lost my head altogether, and got so I couldn’t remember or think

of anything; I just went on and on, shaking all over, and with no

hat.... All of a sudden, what should come into my head: ‘Supposing it’s

all a trick? There was a case in Moscow, at the Rogòzhskoye cemetery;

they came in full uniform and took a lot of money, and went away; and

then it turned out that they’d been only thieves.’ It just came into my

head, and it made my very heart jump; and I said to myself: ‘Why, what a

silly fellow I am to let them trick me like that! I left a lot of money

in the house—over seven hundred roubles.... What’s the use of being such

a fool?’ And directly that came into my head, I thought: ‘I’ll see if I

can’t get myself out of the mess my own way;’ and I think, gentlemen,

you can see for yourselves that I’m not much like a baby in arms.”...

(The narrator here drew up his gigantic form to its full height, squared

back his colossal shoulders, and, rolling up his sleeve, held out for

inspection a mighty fist.)... “I think I’ve got what you may call means

of defence. And here, at a time like that, I seemed all at once to

gather up strength all over my body. I felt it rush into my neck and my

chest and my legs; and into my arm there went such an iron strength of

will that I just squared up, and made them see sparks enough to last

their life-time; and hit and hammered, and banged and boxed, and punched

their heads, and flattened their noses, and squeezed their ribs ... and

when I looked round there was an empty space all about me, and there I

stood alone in my shirt, like Mìnin and Pozhàrsky[53] in the Red Square;

and all the people kicking and wriggling about like fish thrown up on

the bank: there was one head-downwards in a puddle; and another had got

stuck fast in the wattle-fence, and was kicking away and couldn’t get

out. In one word, I had scattered the might of the devil till it melted

away like wax! So there I stood alone in the middle of the battle-field,

and said: ‘What have you done with me, you villains?’”

At this point in his story the giant was magnificent to behold, but the

lad who stood listening to him was still more magnificent. When the

miller told how he had “hammered and banged,” accompanying the narration

with appropriate gestures, the arms and legs and whole body of the lad

were continually in motion. He was utterly unable, while looking at the

miller, to refrain from imitating his gestures. He kept squaring his

elbows, and thrusting his fist into empty space, and more than once came

into collision with the thin red-wood door of the cabin.

“What are you smashing the door for, you heathen idol?” exclaimed the

steward, severely. But though the lad glanced round at the words, he

evidently did not understand them; and the miller, for his part, had

worked himself up into such a state of fury that he paid no heed to

either the lad or the steward or the audience, who could not refrain

from smiling.

“‘What have you done with me, you shameless scoundrels?’” he continued,

frantically. “‘What right have you? Do you think the law allows such

things? Why, it’s robbery and violence! Come near me if you dare! I’ll

kill you outright! I’ll tear you in pieces!...’ There I stood, blazing

away at them, and never noticed that they were getting back their senses

and coming at me again. Suddenly I looked back, and if there wasn’t the

whole squadron coming up behind me.... Up they came; and if you’d seen

the way they rushed at me from behind, and the way they set off

shouting—it’s just a wonder I’m alive!... ‘Ah! so we’re attacked in the

discharge of our duty! Ah! ah! ah! So that’s what you go in for!...

You’ve got a box!... If that’s it, my lads, give the great hulking

fellow what for!’”

Here the lad nearly choked with laughter, but restrained himself.

“‘Hammer him black and blue!...’ And what came next?... They blew their

whistles, and sprang their rattles, and banged their truncheons, and

fire seemed to come out of my head and out of my ears, and my neck was

just like red-hot iron.... I heard some one say, ‘There’s an important

telegram about him; he’s got a box.’... And I shouted to them, ‘There’s

varnish in it—varnish!...’ ‘Oho! Varnish! Pay him out, my lads, pay him

out well!’”

At this point the lad could restrain himself no longer; he burst out

laughing, turned to run out into the passage, and striking his head

violently against the lintel of the door, literally tumbled down at the

foot of the stairs in a fit of laughter. The narrator looked severely at

him, but continued—

“And my friends, they _did_ pay me out! They paid me out in such a way

that I lost my head altogether, and couldn’t tell where I was or what

was happening. I didn’t even know whether I was alive or dead! I was

just altogether——”

Here the narrator shrank down, let his arms hang helplessly, and began

to speak in a kind of lifeless, almost abdominal voice.

“I could hardly move.... O Lord!... Holy Saints!... Holy Virgin!... I

couldn’t even speak or breathe.... And I don’t remember whether I walked

or whether they carried me.... I only know that I found myself in a dark

place, and quite ill; all my bones ached, all my joints throbbed—I just

lay and waited for death.”

The narrator sank slowly down upon the sofa.

“Good Lord! it’s dreadful even to remember, let alone—— Here, my good

man, give me some lemonade and a glass of brandy.”

He addressed the last sentence to the steward in a tone of exhaustion;

but, suddenly changing his manner, turned to the lad, and said, somewhat

irritably—

“I’d like to know what you find to laugh at! What’s there to cackle

about? Is there anything funny in an honest tradesman being half

murdered?... Oh! of course it’s funny to you! You’re nothing but a baby,

and anything can amuse you.... He’s a harmless child——”

Here the narrator turned to the audience.

“But he can take a great club, for all that, and smash a man at one

blow! And then he’ll go back to his village as an innocent child, and

hop about on one foot, and play skittles.... A fine sort of child you

are! Pity no one’s got time to thrash you nowadays!”

“Come now!” muttered the lad, in an injured tone, from the passage.

“What do you mean by ‘come now’? Do you think I didn’t see the way you

cackled?”

“What are you hanging about here for?” interposed the steward, glancing

at the lad, as he carried to the miller a tray with lemonade. “You’ve no

business here. Be off!”

“Where am I to go?”

“Be off, I tell you! You’ve smashed all the doors here! Get along with

you!”

The lad reluctantly lounged up the stairs, but instead of going away,

sat down on the top step.

“I should like to hear,” said one of the officers, “what had become of

your apothecary.”

The narrator drank some lemonade, wiped his beard and moustache, and

continued—

“The apothecary? He was in a bad way. The poor fellow was tearing along

the post-road with express horses. They rushed him along like mad, and

he didn’t know himself what for! ‘What it was all about,’ said he, ‘I

can’t make out. I can’t understand anything about it.’ Those are the

very words he said to me afterwards.... ‘When I got to Moscow,’ said he,

‘I went and took lodgings, and settled my business, and bought some

things, and made the pills’; but something or other kept him, so that he

couldn’t come to the tavern to meet me. He missed seeing me, and he

hadn’t got my address; so he packed up the box of pills, and wrote my

name on the packet, thinking he’d send them off next day. Just as he had

finished doing that—it was in the evening time—one of his friends came

in and said—

“‘Let’s go and hear the harp-playing girls outside the town.’

“‘All right.’

“So they took a _drozhki_, and off they went. Well, of course they took

some of these sewing-girls with them for company, as any bachelors

would.... So they drank, and larked about, and enjoyed themselves; and

my apothecary came home as drunk as a lord. As soon as he got in, he

just threw himself down on his bed and snored. All of a sudden some one

began banging and hammering at the door as hard as they could; and as

tight as he was, it woke him up. Well, he woke up and opened the door;

and in came that very same Mediterranean squadron.[54]

“‘Come with us, please.’

“‘Where to?’

“‘You’ll see.’

“‘But why, for mercy’s sake? What about?’

“‘You’ll know when you get there.’

“My apothecary began blustering at them in his tipsy way; but they only

told him, ‘It’ll be the worse for you; you’d better come quietly.’ So

there was nothing for it; he had to dress and go. He thought he’d best

hide those pills before he started; but they asked him—

“‘What’s that parcel?’

“‘That?’ says he; oh, that’s nothing!’

“They saw he wanted to hide something from them, and caught hold of the

parcel; but he was afraid to let them have it. Supposing any one should

analyze the pills!... There was poison in them, and his name was written

on the box. ‘And I was afraid,’ he told me afterwards, ‘to leave them in

the lodgings either. Supposing anybody should take a fancy to them and

swallow them, there’d be the devil to pay then!’ So he tried to hide the

box up his sleeve; but they didn’t give him the chance. The end of it

was that one of his visitors hit him on the shoulder, and the box

tumbled out of his sleeve; and they picked it up, and marched him away.

They took him to their central office; and in less than half-an-hour’s

time some one came up to him, asked his name, bundled him into a

_troika_,[55] and—off!”

“What a disgraceful business! How could such a thing happen?” exclaimed

one of the officers. “It must have been some absurd mistake.”

“Of course it was a mistake! Things like that always are mistakes. But

who it was that made the mistake, that we don’t know to this day.”

“But no doubt it was afterwards proved to have been all nonsense.”

“Certainly; the truth came out, never fear. Everything was made clear

enough afterwards, though even now we don’t understand anything about

it.... My poor apothecary couldn’t make out what it was all about. He

only just felt for his liver, to see if they hadn’t squashed it to

pieces; and as for me, when I came to my senses, I couldn’t make head or

tail of the whole thing....”

“And how was it all explained?”

“Listen then; I’ll tell you all as it happened.... What they did with

me, and where they put me, after that fight, I really can’t rightly tell

you. I can only say one thing: I suffered enough from mortal fear,

that’s true, but they didn’t do me any harm; I’m bound to say they

treated me kindly and politely, and altogether like real gentlemen.... I

thought it would be worse; but instead of that they soon began to look

into it, and clear matters up.”

“That’s just what I say,” interposed the steward; “they should have

looked into it first, and not go hitting people right and left.”

“You’re right there,” assented the narrator; “and it all turned out as

you say.... When they called me up before the Member[56]—and there I was

with my broken head all tied up in wet rags—he asked me—

“‘What’s the matter with you? Are you ill?’

“‘Why, your Excellency,’ says I, ‘they knocked me about so!’

“‘What!’ he cried; ‘how dare they? On what ground?’

“So I told him they said they’d got a paper.

“‘Oh, the scoundrels!’ and you should have heard him give it to them! He

pitched into them hot and strong; and at last he turned round to me and

said—

“‘Just tell me what this is;’ and he showed me the box of pills.

“At first I wouldn’t let on that I knew anything about it, because I

wasn’t sure what might be up. I thought to myself, ‘How should I know?

Maybe the apothecary’s got into some mess or other. These are dangerous

times; I may get into trouble if I say I know him.’ So I said, ‘I don’t

know anything about it.’ Then he asked me, ‘Don’t you know a person

named Làptev?’ (Làptev was the apothecary’s name, you know.) And I said

again, ‘No, I don’t!’ Then he pulled out the canvas that the box of

pills was done up in, and showed it to me, and there was written on the

canvas—

“‘_Ivàn Ivànovich Popòv. Packet from Làptev; price 1 rouble._’

“‘You are Popòv, aren’t you?’ says he.

“‘Yes.’

“‘And the packet is to you?’

“‘It must be.’

“‘Then you must know Làptev?’

“I saw I’d put my foot in it, and so I told him—

“‘Very sorry, your Excellency—yes, I know him.’

“‘Why didn’t you say so at once?’

“‘I was afraid to, your Excellency.’

“‘What were your afraid of?’

“‘I don’t know.’

“‘That’s odd!’

“‘I’m afraid of everything, your Excellency! They nearly killed me, and

for the life of me I can’t make out why!’

“Well, when I said that he began to laugh, and said—

“‘Don’t you be afraid; just tell me the truth.’

“‘I’ll tell everything I know,’ said I. And he asked me—

“‘What did you want with poisoned pills?’

“‘Poisoned! Which way poisoned?’

“‘Why, there’s poison enough in those pills to kill a man! A man! They

would kill a horse! What did you want with them?’

“‘I take them,’ said I; ‘my stomach’s out of order.’

“‘But they’re poison!’

“‘Not a bit of it! The Lord forbid! I’ve got into the way of it, little

by little, and they do me nothing but good.’

“‘H’m! And who made them?’

“‘The apothecary, my friend.’

“‘Tell me all about it.’

“So I told him all I knew. I said—

“‘He promised to bring me the pills at Patrìkyev’s tavern, and he never

came; and I don’t know where he went.’

“‘And where’s your apothecary now?’

“‘That,’ said I, ‘is more than I can tell your Excellency.’

“Well, he thought and thought, and he poked and poked over his papers;

and then he rang the bell. And presently they brought in a young man;

and his Excellency asked me—

“‘Is this the gentleman who made your pills?’

“I looked at him, but it was quite a strange man.

“‘No, sir,’ said I; ‘I never saw the gentleman in my life.’ And the

young man said the same thing. They showed him the pills, and he looked

at them, and said—

“‘I don’t understand anything about it.’

“So then his Excellency poked and poked over the papers, and then he

rang the bell, and whispered with somebody, and then with somebody else,

and then he sent away the young man; and at last he said to me—

“‘Yes, there’s been a mistake; I hope you will not take it amiss.’

“‘God bless me!’ said I; ‘I’m glad enough to be alive!’

“‘You see,’ said he, ‘it was this way: we’ve got another Làptev, the

young man you just saw; and he’s concerned in a very bad business. We

thought that he had made those pills. And when the doctors declared that

they were poison, we thought of course there might be.... Then, you see,

the box was addressed in your name, and so we sent word to have you

arrested, ... and those blockheads of gendarmes went and played the very

deuce.’

“‘Yes, indeed, your Excellency,’ said I; ‘I shan’t forget it in this

life.’

“‘Well, really, you see, it can’t be helped; they’re stupid, ignorant

men, and you know yourself what dangerous times we live in nowadays.’

“‘Yes,’ said I, ‘God knows the times are bad enough!’

“Well, so after that I felt a bit encouraged; and I asked him—

“‘Please, your honour, where is my apothecary?’

“‘That’s just the very thing I’ve got to find out,’ said he. ‘There

seems to have been another mistake made over him.’ And he began telling

me about it. ‘There must have been a muddle at the head office.... This

young man’s name is Làptev too, and he was to be forwarded on; and it

seems that, instead of him, they forwarded on your apothecary....

However, all that will be put straight.’

“‘And what’s to happen to me now,’ said I, ‘if you please?’

“‘You may go.’

“‘Go quite away?’